Springtime is almost, almost here. There's a mist of green among the understory trees and shrubs clustering the property lines behind the house. It has been raining since yesterday. My friend (now more than a friend) BG is off somewhere in the button-round hills leading a hike. I am following my usual Saturday rituals. Saturday is my day of relaxation. I've finally learned to give myself one of those. I get up late and unhurriedly. I let Apollo out of his crate and into the yard. After he does his sprinting and sniffing routine, call him back into the house with me, where I make myself some breakfast, usually hot cereal simmered slowly in milk. Then I clean the house.
I rent from a middle-aged single father whose teenage daughter lives here most of the month. I have two small rooms and a bathroom on the right-hand side of the house, along with access to the kitchen and living room for both myself and Apollo. Gigantic dogs shed hair, so part of the agreement for renting here is that I vacuum after him. I do a more thorough job than anyone here expects--usually dusting and tidying, a little extra scrubbing in the kitchen.
Renting here has had its ups and downs, but on days like these I especially aware of why I choose to live in close proximity with a family in a private home, instead of some little apartment off the interstate. The truth of the matter is that I don't do very well on my own. Mind you, I think I'm a pretty mature 24-year-old. I have a full-time job as intern/technician at a national lab. I pay all my bills and college loans and help a younger sibling with college tuition and living expenses. But living alone just doesn't work out very well for me. It seems I must have people to come home to in order to retain my sanity and compassion. Life for us humans was meant to be lived together and I am a rather vulnerable example of that.
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